


of secret sistene chapels

by SomeTorist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Graffiti, M/M, Vague References to Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeTorist/pseuds/SomeTorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Stiles had told his fifteen-year-old, Sheriff’s-kid of a self that he’d be a certifiable graffiti artist in three years, he would’ve laughed in his own face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of secret sistene chapels

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before the 3a finale -- before the identity of the darach was revealed, even. As such, for our purposes, the alphas are still alive and kicking.
> 
> Credit for title and fic inspiration goes to Emma Hunton's stunning performance of Kerrigan-Lowdermilk's ["Anyway."](http://youtu.be/BkyBw3IO1-M)
> 
> Many thanks to [Anjali](http://pbanjali.tumblr.com) for her thoughts, constructive criticism, and general amazingness -- without her, this probably never would've seen the light of day.
> 
> This is three parts meta and two parts fic, and I make no apologies for that. Enjoy!

If Stiles had told his fifteen-year-old, Sheriff’s-kid of a self that he’d be a certifiable graffiti artist in three years, he would’ve laughed in his own face.

But now it’s three years later and Stiles is eighteen and his hair is long and his limbs are longer and he carries a can of spray paint with him wherever he goes and he almost always uses it.

It’s still illegal. Stiles is still the Sheriff’s kid. But he’s done enough shit at this point that if he’s ever caught-- well. Having tagged some Beacon Hills buildings will be the very least of his worries.

 

* * *

 

It starts when Deaton alludes to the possibility of the existence of protection wards, and even the _chance_ that Stiles might be able to preemptively prevent some of the bullshit being thrown their way is enough to make him whimper. He forces as much of the truth as he can from Deaton, fills in the gaps with the Internet, and Lydia develops a method of hijacking an unopened aerosol can for easier, faster ward implementation.

With alphas hot on their heels, Stiles has just enough time to spray a crimson square, clumsily, on a doorframe while believing _this will protect us this will protect us THIS WILL PROTECT US_ so desperately that nails dig into his palm. He and Scott and Lydia almost die with Kali’s face only ten inches from theirs, but then they don’t, because it works.

And after they’ve hosed the blood off the concrete, after Issac and Allison and Derek and Scott have left to scatter dismembered limbs to the four corners, Lydia finds Stiles with his fingers hovering above the ward that saved their lives. She doesn’t ask questions, just leaves him be, and presumably drives herself home. But Stiles stands there, blinking at the four red lines, the only remaining proof that his pack had been there, that they had fought for their lives, stared evil down and survived for another day, that they had saved themselves and everyone who could’ve later gotten caught in the crossfire-- that they had _done something_.

There’s something poetic, he realizes, in leaving so clumsy and crude a mark as proof that they _matter_. He doesn’t know what that something is, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out.

That’s how it starts. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles hides his spray paint cans like a porn stash-- in an unmarked, unlabeled duffle under his bed, behind mounds of unwashed, ancient underwear. He’s become the kind of person to have a contingency plan for every possible scenario, but he honestly doesn’t know how he’ll talk his way out of a lecture or a grounding or prison if his dad ever finds it.

His collection is diverse, now numbering over twenty different blends of colors and pressurized herbs-- green for healing, mountain ash for protection, orange for peace, wolfsbane for murder, red for protection, black for protection.

Stiles uses red and black a lot.

He put wards around each pack member’s house years ago, of course, makes regular rounds to check they’re still holding, has gone over each one multiple times to add just one more layer of protection. They all know what he can do, but if they know the exact number of shields he’s thrown in front of their homes without their permission, they don’t bring it up, and neither does he.

 

* * *

 

The first non-ward tag he sprays is the alphas’ twisted, pointy perversion of Derek’s triskelion.

They’ve been fighting the odds for months that feel like years, Scott’s learned to talk faster, Issac is always shaking, Allison never smiles, Derek is desperate, and Stiles is tired. He is so fucking tired. The final showdown is a masterpiece finale-- written to look like an inevitable tragedy, with the tables irreversibly turning when the pack reveals a plot twist of their own design.

It’s a bloodbath, but no one who matters ends up dead, and that’s all that counts.

Derek, Issac, and Allison hold Deucalion down as Stiles systematically sprays white paint laced with wolfsbane into his mouth, nose, and ears, _willing_ it to course through his body, to never leave his system. Derek slits his throat quickly, before the pain becomes unbearable.

They clean up the mess and Stiles is speechless with indescribable, incandescent ecstasy because Deucalion is _dead_ and the alphas are _gone_ and he crumples to the floor wanting to dance and scream and sing and sob. All he can do is gasp, just shy of hyperventilating, with a grin on his face and tears in his eyes.

Around him, they make quick work of the body – less than a year in, and they’re already experts on how best to dismember a werewolf; it’s sick, and he’s proud – and they know him well enough now to give him enough space to process. He’s still processing when they file out to their separate cars, all almost crying with relief.

He fingers the can of white spray paint by his side.

Everyone has already left to celebrate.

He sprays the alphas’ triskele there, onto the concrete between his crisscrossed legs, and thinks nothing except _we were here we survived WE DID IT_.

There’s something poetic about taking the alphas’ greatest symbol of power from their cold, _dead_ hands and using it as proof of their defeat.

The alphas are gone. Their triskele isn’t a threat, anymore, or a reason to wake up screaming in the middle of the night. It’s powerless.

Now, all this little white triskele means is _victory_.

 

* * *

 

Two months after the alphas, a lake monster kills a ten-year-old boy, and they’re back to square one with tense pack meetings and through-the-roof anxiety and innumerable insomniatic nights. But contrary to anything Stiles ever could’ve predicted, they manage to fucking _win_ , and no one dies-- except the afanc.

Stiles tags the largest tree on the lake, uses pure, untainted black spray paint for a rendering of Derek’s triskelion.

 

* * *

 

They’ve gotten really good at killing supernatural creatures. It’s hard as hell, and _someone_ inevitably ends up bruised and bloody and broken, and there are too many close calls to count, but no one ends up dead, and that’s a fucking miracle. They aren’t superheroes, not even close, but they’re all Beacon Hills has against the monsters they don’t know exist. Not that Beacon Hills knows the pack exists, either.

Stiles’s graffiti is hidden in a treasure hunt all over the city-- triskelions, squares, triangles, crosses littering the dark corners of alleys, pressed to the underside of window frames, even clinging to the occasional sidewalk block.

It’s been three years since Scott was bitten by Peter, and Stiles has long recognized this for what it is: an unending war. He’s leaner, now, has stronger legs for all the running they do. It’s exhausting. He’s lost count of their victories -- not that it’d have been fitting to keep track, anyway -- and it isn’t a relief to know that they keep winning. It feels like they’re _surviving_ , not living, and Stiles is always waiting for their next misfortune to rear its disgustingly misshapen head. With something like magic in his fingers that operates through sheer force of will, there are days when he feels like a hero. And there are days -- more days -- when he unlocks the door of his jeep, puts his key in the ignition, and almost drives out of town.

Instead, he walks. He doesn’t remember every location of his tags, memory clouded with adrenaline and time, but he walks until he finds one, can run his fingers over it, remembers how it feels to be part of something so organized and efficient and second-nature, how it feels to know that they’ve beaten the odds _again_ , who would’ve guessed. He lightly scratches his nails over the paint, and it’s a visceral reminder of the peace they buy with their pain.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles looks up. Derek is leaning against the doorframe, watching him with something suspiciously close to affection. Stiles shrugs.

“You follow me?” he throws back, smiling softly. Derek mimics his shrug, strides forward with intent. They’ve been an unofficial Thing for the past few months -- Stiles has no idea what they’re doing, suspects it’s a way to de-stress but hopes it’s something deeper -- and anyway, he’d learned about Derek’s penchant for sneaking up on the unsuspecting practically on Day One.

Derek stops short, still too many feet away, and Stiles would swear that Derek goes pale. “Wh-- what’s that?”

“The alphas’ triskele,” he replies calmly, and Derek reels, stumbles back like Stiles has punched him in the balls. His gaze flickers from the paint to Stiles and back again, frantic.

“Why would you--” Derek starts, voice hoarse with desperation, and Stiles rushes forward, captures Derek’s stupid head between his hands. Derek lets him.

“Stop,” Stiles whispers fiercely, “I’m not with the alpha pack, and I never was. _Stop_.”

Stiles stares him down until he can feel the tension start draining from Derek’s body like rainwater.

“I know,” Derek sighs, glancing away, “I know.”

A beat, and Stiles releases Derek’s face, takes a step back, takes a breath, and tells the truth.

“It’s from the night we killed Deucalion,” he says. He slips his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, toying with the cap from a recently-deceased can of spray paint. “I was sitting there, and he was... _dead_ , and--” Stiles shrugs helplessly, “--it felt right.”

Derek takes a tentative step forward, gaze on the paint. Stiles waits him out, and they eventually find themselves almost face-to-face, standing over the tiny triskele. Derek’s thumb smooths over Stiles’s cheek; Stiles leans into his palm.

“Why?” Derek finally asks, voice steady and unassuming.

 _I don’t know,_ he almost says, and it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he clenches his jaw tight against it, because it’s a lie, and he hasn’t lied to Derek in years.

“Is it a--” Derek’s brow wrinkles, “--a Batman thing?”

And Stiles knows this is Derek’s best attempt at being understanding, his best forced attempt at _relating_ , but he’s so far from the truth that Stiles’s answer escapes his lips before he can stop it-- “No. Fuck. It’s a... _we save the world and no one fucking knows_ , thing. It’s a, _we risk our lives literally every day and no one fucking cares_ , thing. Derek, this is--” Stiles shakes himself free of Derek’s hand. “This isn’t me trying to live out some childhood fantasy of being someone’s hero, and that you would even _suggest_ that I’m on some deluded quest to prove myself, _now_ , then you can f--”

Derek’s hand finds Stiles’s, and he clenches his jaw again. He feels like his seams are ripping, like time has worn him threadbare.

“You don’t need to prove yourself,” Derek starts, but Stiles doesn’t let him.

“I _know_ , Derek, Jesus, would you--”

“--and wanting recognition is understandable--”

“Oh, fuck you.” Stiles drops Derek’s hand, takes a step back, furious. Derek looks stunned. Good.

“I couldn’t give a _fuck_ about recognition,” Stiles says, hands balled by his side. “I don’t need-- I don’t _want_ \-- to be anyone’s fucking superhero, alright?” Derek shifts his weight, the guilty bastard, and Stiles sighs, runs a hand through his own hair, bites his lip. “I just... What happens at the end?”

Derek blinks. “The end?” he parrots quietly. Stiles nods once, looks away.

“This can’t go on forever, right? It has to... _end_ , eventually.” And for a moment, all he can see is Allison with bullet holes riddling her corpse, Scott fleeing East without a second thought; warm, bright, uneventful pack meetings over turkey and mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving; Issac retreating into himself like a terrified tortoise, going mute for fear of the consequences of human interaction; blissfully domestic sex with Derek, devoid of the constant worry that a bloodthirsty monster will leap through their bedroom window; Derek’s lifeless, limp corpse abandoned in a warehouse--

Stiles sees _the end_ like a cobweb of possible inevitabilities, sees them scatter to the shadows, lying in wait, laying booby traps to ensnare them all-- and he can’t fucking breathe.

Derek’s murmured _“Stiles”_ brings him back, grounds him.

 _“The end,”_ Stiles hears himself say, “When we’re all finally dead or gone or, God forbid, _happy_. When we aren’t running for our lives and rending evil werewolves limb from limb. When we start…” He breathes. “Living.”

Derek’s eyes slip closed, and he nods.

“What happens then?” Stiles asks quietly, proud when his voice doesn’t break. He folds his arms across his chest. “What, the whole world will just continue on, like nothing happened? Like we didn’t bleed and scream and cry and-- and lose people?” He swallows, gaze fixed on the triskele at his feet. “Who knows how many years we’ll have of this, Derek?” he asks softly. “I just-- all I want is proof. Proof that it’s real; proof that we’re _doing something_. That’s all. Really.”

And there must be something poetic in the tableau they create, kissing over a triskele so white it almost glows--

But for this moment, Stiles doesn't give a fuck.


End file.
